


Before the Maker I Swear

by LovelyLessie



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 13:16:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4836728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyLessie/pseuds/LovelyLessie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In private, in the dead of night, the Warden and her lover marry, before they go to face their fates against the archdemon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the Maker I Swear

“What if we find a Chantry sister?” Cerewyn murmurs, her face pressed into Alistair’s shoulder.

“Sorry, what?” he asks, and pulls back a little.

She lifts her head to look at his silhouette in the dark. “The villagers are all in the castle,” she says. “And surely with the battle tomorrow, there must be at least a single sister awake, to pray for the soldiers. We could seek her out, tonight, before we leave…”

There’s a moment of silence, and then he says, softly, almost reverently, “You mean to marry us?”

“I do.” She reaches up to rest her hand on his cheek. “I made you a promise, Alistair, one we may not have another chance to carry out. Tonight could be it for us, couldn’t it? This could be the end.”

She can feel the way his mouth tightens at the corners, feel that his lips are trembling. “Could we do that?” he asks, his voice on the edge of breaking.

“I don’t know why not,” she says. “If you want to.”

“Of course,” he says, finding her hand with his. “If – if this could be – the last night we have, us, together…”

He pulls her closer to kiss her and rests his brow against hers.

“I would spend it as your husband,” he whispers, clasping her fingers tight in his palm.

“Let’s do it, my love,” she murmurs, and sits up. “Let’s find one of the priestesses.”

They slip out of the room in silence together and make their way through the dark halls, and she  thinks how much they’re like children, creeping around in shadows on the tips of their toes. She doesn’t feel much more than a child herself. She feels so small she almost thinks that if her father were here he could pick her up as he did when she was a girl of six, hold her close and keep her safe and sheltered in his arms.

She is not ready to die. She is not ready to face her death. She’s not like Wynne with many years behind her to have done what she was needed for; she’s too young to be content to wait for the end to come.

She curls her fingers more tightly around his, willing herself not to let any tears start. If she’s going to face death tomorrow, she will not leave this undone, at least.

* * *

They find the sister in an alcove off the main hall, standing in silent contemplation before a brazier surrounded by candles. She lifts her head when she hears them approach and turns to them, looking serene and sad.

“I know you,” she says. “You’re among the Wardens who will fight tomorrow, yes? I take it you’ve come to ask for the Maker’s blessing?”

“Yes,” Cerewyn replies, “but not for the battle to come.”

The sister inclines her head, her eyes widening. “Then what?”

“We would ask you to marry us, in the eyes of the Maker,” Cerewyn says.

“Please,” Alistair adds.

The priestess looks over them for a long moment, her lips pursed and her brows drawn together, before she nods. “I will do it,” she agrees. “Please, stand before the brazier.”

She steps away from it, and Cerewyn takes her place with Alistair across from her. “Are you ready?” she asks, taking both his hands in hers.

“I am,” he agrees, his eyes shining in the low light.

“In the name of the Maker, who brought us this world, and in whose name we say the Chant of Light,” the sister begins, facing them with her hands outstretched, “I stand here tonight to join these two in holy matrimony, that they may live their life together blessed with His light and bound by His word.”

The red-gold light from the brazier illuminates Alistair’s face from beneath and casts deep shadows across his cheeks. Cerewyn can feel his hands shaking. There shouldn’t be so much sorrow in his eyes in this moment, she thinks, or written across his face. He deserves better than this, than having his wedding,  _their_  wedding, alone in a dim room, heavy with the knowledge that one of them will not survive to see the sun rise twice on their marriage.

“Maker, bless these, your children,” the priestess continues, “and look down upon them in love and pride, and not with scorn. Maker, grant them peace and joy in their lives together…”

She falters and stops to compose herself.

“…and let their love be judged worthy by you and by your Bride Andraste,” she finishes, and turns to Alistair.  “Repeat after me; speak the words of the Chant.”

He swallows hard and nods, his eyes still fixed on Cerewyn’s face.

“Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,” intones the sister, raising her hands.

Alistair lifts his head a little, though his gaze doesn’t falter. “Maker, though the darkness comes upon me…”

“I shall embrace the light; I shall weather the storm. I shall endure.”

He echoes her, his tone mirroring hers.

“What you have created, no one can tear asunder,” the priestess finishes, and waits for him to chant it back to her before she turns to Cerewyn to repeat the rite.

When Cerewyn has repeated each line of the verse, the sister lowers her hands, facing them both. “Are you ready to speak your vows to each other and to the Maker?” she asks.

“I’m ready,” Alistair says.

“As am I,” Cerewyn agrees.

The priestess nods and turns again to Alistair. “Before the Maker, do you swear to give your life and your love to this woman?”

“Before the Maker, I swear,” he affirms.

“As does Our Lady Andraste stand in eternity beside He who is Her husband, do you swear to stay faithfully beside this woman?”

“Before the Maker, I swear.”

“Though there be trials ahead, though your path together may lead you through fire and through night, though the world my stand against you, do you swear to share her burdens and stand with her even in suffering?”

His face tenses, his brows drawing together as he looks at Cerewyn. “Before the Maker, I swear,” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady.

Cerewyn tightens her grasp on his hands as the sister turns to her and administers the vows to her as well.

“Before the Maker, I swear,” she answers, each time, her shoulders shaking as she speaks.

“Then in His sight, by His will, and with His blessing, I pronounce you married,” says the priestess, “now and – and all your lives, until He should end your time on this earth together, and take you both to His glory.”

Alistair leans forward to press his lips to Cerewyn’s, and she stretches up to meet him.

“Thank you, Sister,” she says when they separate, and bows her head to the priestess. “We are honored.”

“You should get your rest before tomorrow,” the sister says. “My prayers will be with both of you.”

“Thank you,” Alistair says, and turns away. “Let’s – let’s go up to bed, Cer.”

* * *

They return to his room without speaking, his arm at her waist, her hand on his. He closes the door softly behind them, and in the dark they lie in his bed beside each other.

“I suppose now we ought to consummate our marriage,” he says, and laughs weakly.

She smiles a little and reaches up to trace the edge of his jaw with her thumb. “Do you want to?” she asks, pressing herself close against him.

A beat. “Not really,” he admits, sounding weary. “I think I’d rather just – be with you. Just like this. Is… is that alright?”

“Of course,” she says, and puts her arms around him, tucking her head under his chin.

“I love you,” he whispers into her hair.

“And I love you,” she replies. She tips her head up to kiss his throat, his jaw, his cheek. “Always.”

“Always,” he echoes, but his breath catches in his throat. He sobs softly, pulling her against his chest.

“Oh, Alistair,” she says, her chest aching.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whimpers, shaking his head.

She kisses the lids of his eyes, softly. There are tears in his lashes; she can taste them on her lips. “I’m sorry,” she tells him, her voice cracking. “I’m so sorry, Alistair.”

“No,” he says, and makes a shaky sound that’s as much laughing as crying. “No, Cer, don’t be. I don’t – I don’t mean -”

He draws back and disentangles his arms from hers so he can cup her face in both palms. In the little light that seeps below the door she can see he’s smiling through tears.

“Even if I lose you tomorrow,” he whispers, “at least I’ll – I’ll have had this, won’t I? I’ll have been yours.” He sobs softly, shaking his head. “That’s enough for me.”

She nods, trying to blink back tears but not succeeding. “And I,” she manages, “could not have asked for more. I could ask for  _nothing_ better than this.”

He pulls her close again and she buries her face in his shoulder, crying quietly.

It’s some comfort, she finds, to know she’s lying in the arms of her husband as she weeps for all the time she won’t have and all the time they won’t get to spend together. It’s some comfort to know that he can sleep, just this one night, with his wife in his arms.

She hopes it’s as much comfort to him that they should fall asleep like this, embracing, bound together and so close their heartbeats might be one.


End file.
